A Matter of Time
by jenron12
Summary: "All journeys start somewhere. One foot in front of the other… one man, flawed but not fragile… one last step he is almost ready to take. Easy? Perhaps not. But he'll be damned if he lets self-doubt and circumstance hold him back much longer." Set post-series, this is a 5 chapter peek inside Cal's mind.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: I just wanted to say that for any of you that are following my other story, "Take the Long Way Home," rest assured I am still actively writing that one. It's not on hold at all. The idea for this fic simply cropped up out of the blue, and refused to leave me alone until I wrote it down. So... I did. :)

This one will be 4 chapters in length, and it's told entirely from Cal's point of view. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

He's dreamt about it no fewer than three thousand times. The beginning, you know? The way they'll finally… _evolve_… past 'friends' and into 'lovers,' in the span of a single breath. It's long been his favorite type of fantasy. And while the scenario isn't always the same, it _does_ tend to carry a bit of routine: evening hours, perfect timing, and an all-consuming desire to finally, _finally_, stop dancing around the inevitable and just embrace it, head on. His office, her living room, in a bed, on the floor – he never quite 'sees' the location, but he doesn't really need to, either. Because _that_ part isn't important. _Gillian_ is. And he can see _her_ with perfect clarity.

In his mind's eye, it has always seemed like such an easy step to take. Nerves and risk are both non-existent, each and every time. And in that world, he instinctively knows _exactly_ how to please her; what places make her moan, and which ones make her pull fistfuls of his hair in eager, grasping palms, as her thighs tremble beneath him and she whimpers his name.

In his _mind's eye_, there is never a chase. Never any chance of refusal. No awkward hesitations, or first-time fumbling, or anything complicated at all, because _that_ version of Cal knows exactly what he wants. And so does Gillian. Mostly because their fantasy-selves are tired of waiting, tired of denying the inevitable, and so goddamn _ready_ to take this particular step, that when it finally happens… it's easy.

All of it.

_Two… three… four_… call him arrogant if you must, but his imagination has always known what to do – how to trigger multiple releases that make her writhe and moan. Stereotypical, right? But he can't seem to help himself. In that world, he is well-versed in everything "Gillian," and is always eager to show her what he can do. All the ways he can please her. All the ways he _intends_ to please her, if given enough time.

(And in his _mind's eye_, there is always enough time.)

His dreams of her have long been extremely detailed. They are all powerfully erotic, and the _ease_ with which their bodies crash together never fails to leave him gasping in his empty bed. In that world – in his fantasy – it's _easy_ to get lost in her; to blur the boundaries between the place where he ends and she begins. And it's _easy_ to control his response to the stimuli – to drive harder, faster, longer, unbothered by the strain in his thighs or the ache in his groin, or how every inch of her welcoming heat makes him crave release even more.

Actually, on second thought? Maybe he doesn't have a favorite type of fantasy.

Maybe _all_ of them are his favorites.

Their sexual relationship would be fantastic – of that much, he is absolutely certain. Loving her _in that way _would be easy, and the addiction to it would be all-consuming and immediate. Regrets would be non-existent, and the toughest question they'd need to answer in the bliss of afterglow would be _why_ in bloody hell they waited so long to cross the threshold.

_**But**_.

In his conscious thoughts… in those that exist _outside_ their imaginary sex life… he can't decide if 'easy' is what he wants. After all, Cal Lightman and Gillian Foster have never had that type of relationship. The mere idea of it feels foreign to him.

Parts of it?

Alright, alright – he'll admit that _**yes**_, parts of their relationship could be considered '_easy_.' Some very important parts, as a matter of fact. Like the way he's never felt pressured to fill silences around her; to talk and talk _and talk_, just to avoid the awkward tension that is born during quiet moments. Because with Gillian, he's always loved the quiet moments. He's always thought of them as tiny little slices of time, in which he can study her face, or her hands, or the way sunlight and emotion compliment the color of her eyes and the wisp of freckles on her cheekbones.

And he thinks it's worth noting that with Gillian, there has never been any awkward tension during quiet moments, because there has never been any awkward tension _at all_. **Ever**. Not even from day one, when he behaved like a bit of a boor, and she refused to be intimidated by his unconventional approach to adult conversation. Instead, she'd been genuine and welcoming… hadn't behaved like someone who was being paid to indulge him… and he'd felt a little flicker of _something_ start worm its way into the stubborn cackles of his defensive heart, and shake the walls that surrounded it.

Love at first sight?

No, not really. His inter-romantic has never gone quite that far.

But he has always felt it, you know? Even from day one. The 'thing' – the _energy_ that pulses between them makes him feel _hot_ and _cold_ and _safe_ and _vulnerable_, all at the same time. Quite a talent, that. Not many people have ever been able to affect him so quickly.

(Or so deeply.)

Their banter comes easily, too. Gillian has always known when to take him with a grain of salt, and when to volley back at him – to push him outside his comfort zone, for the sake of his sanity as well as hers. She has never seemed to mind it when he swears, and she's even been known to toss around a few rounds of "_plonker_" or "_wanker_" herself, on occasion. And bloody _hell_ does he enjoy sharing scotch with her. The good stuff, too. No expense spared. She's always been worth it.

Thanks to him, she now knows how to throw a proper punch, how to change a flat tire, and how to dance the waltz. And in return, _he_ now knows how to swear in French, how to shoot a proper layup, and how she likes to be kissed. And _**yes**_, those things had been easy to learn, too. Especially the kissing. While he's unlikely to ever admit it aloud, the thrill of her tongue darting past his lips had nearly left him spent and panting, right there on that porn director's floor.

Gillian gives brilliant hugs, has a wicked sense of humor, and knows how to handle herself in almost any situation. She is strong, gentle, tough, feminine – just as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside – and she is still so bloody _loyal_ that it makes his head spin. Almost ten years together, and his madness still hasn't driven her away.

But in many ways, 'easy' has never been their trademark.

When he fell in love with Gillian, _she_ was still in love with someone else. She was still _married_ to someone else, even. And that part damn near killed him.

For years, he watched her struggle to realize the dream of motherhood… only to have it yanked from her grasp after a mere fifty-seven days. And he gladly let her cry on his shoulder when her husband – a man who didn't even deserve to have her in his life _at all_, much less in his bed – cast the stones of blame, guilt, and self-destruction from every possible angle.

Easy?

Not even close.

That portion of their past was fraught with pain. Bittersweet memories that always reminded him how far they'd come, how much they'd learned from one another, and how lucky they've been to know the type of trust that many other couples never seem to find.

(Yes, '_couples_.' That wasn't a slip of the tongue.)

_Now_. He's never admitted this next bit to anyone but himself, but _**yes**_, he has always assumed that "their time" would someday come. His and Gillian's. That once all the distractions were finally gone… once the moment was right… once there was nothing standing in their way anymore… things would _click_. A touch would linger, or the aim of a side-of-the-mouth kiss would falter – something, anything, would break the ice in which their "line" had been frozen, thereby allowing fate to take over.

But that word, yeah? '_Assume_.' There's a reason it comes with such a nasty reputation.

Indulge him a small confession?

He knows that Dave "Captain America" Atherton (_aka_ Marco, _aka_ 'Rat Bastard Who'd Swept Foster off Her Feet') _had been_, arguably, exactly the type of torture he deserved, for behaving like too much of a chicken shit to actually _tell_ Gillian how he felt. With _words_, instead of facial tics. Which was doubly bitter, because – brace yourself for this one – he had no doubts about which ones to use.

_That part_ (the words) came together sometime between Matheson's gun and his return from Afghanistan – _after_ his horizontal tango with Poppy, and _before_ the mess with Clara left him feeling like a weak-willed, testosterone-fueled louse. Regrets? Yes, _both_ of those experiences made the list. As did several others.

But back to Gillian, though. In his _head_, the speech was practically perfect. Heartfelt and genuine, it included everything from how the press of her fingers against his palm felt like coming home… to how she made him want to be a better man.

But in _reality_, he understands that he's long been stumbling.

And that he's certainly _anything_ but perfect.

Though he has always been ashamed to admit it aloud, everyone who knows him _also_ knows that he has a terrible habit of testing Gillian's loyalty with cruel stunts. And in their aftermath, he often tries to convince himself that casual, risk-free sex is (or _was_ – past tense) an acceptable substitute for making love to the only woman he truly wants. He's spent too much time relying on phrases like "_spare bedroom_" or "_not when it comes to you_" to serve as a continuance; as an ellipsis, of sorts, to represent all the things he still can't quite bring himself to say aloud.

_I love you._

On paper, those three words look deceptively simple. They are straightforward in a no-holds-barred type of way that both excites and terrifies him. And _on paper_… they're easy.

But in practice?

In _practice_… on each of the three (_yes, three – _he isn't a total coward) occasions when he's _almost_ spoken those words… it's felt as though he's been strapped into the world's wildest roller coaster. That with one wrong move, his harness might slip and throw him into a tangle of heartache and hindsight, somewhere on the smooth, metal track.

That's not to say that he plans to stay silent forever, though. He doesn't. Sooner or later, it will be his moment to step up to the gate – to take a deep breath and strap himself into that roller coaster, yeah? His moment to embrace the exhilaration and adrenaline… open his mouth… and speak.

_When_.

_**Not if.**_

As far as he's concerned, that distinction alone is progress.

* * *

The waking hours are, unsurprisingly, the hardest. They represent time when he's been forced to mask the depth of his emotions, and allow his feelings for Gillian to take a backseat to the tasks at hand: cases, clients, staff members, meetings, responsibilities… etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Lather, rinse, and repeat. For _years_. Almost a full decade, even. During which time he's seen their trifling, previously-encased-in-ice "line" become thinner and thinner.

Change. Evolution. Progress. The world hasn't much cared that they are still stuck somewhere between neutral and reverse, because it (_life itself_) is ever-changing. Just consider the past three years. A mere thirty-six short months in which Captain America left, Claire died, and Wallowski got transferred. Weeks that saw Emily preparing for college, Zoe become a bride again, and – slowly but surely – Gillian's smile return. Happiness has led to comfort, and comfort has led them back into a routine… and he bloody _loves_ the fact that it managed to bring them a bit farther than full circle. To the point where they are once again content to spend their days immersed in cases, while he hopes (desperately) to avoid many (most) of the 'unnecessary risks' that mar their past. Or in other words… he's been trying.

Consciously.

He's been trying _really bloody hard_.

In the evenings, they often go to basketball games and movies. It takes Gillian only two attempts to learn his curry recipe, and it takes him twice as long to learn the joy of sharing an ice cream sundae (two spoons, extra whipped cream, caramel sauce on his side – chocolate on hers) on a warm summer evening. They serve as each other's "Plus One" at three different weddings, and she holds his hand… introduces him to her university friends… blushes, and smiles, and turns twenty different shades of beautiful when he opts to bring her flowers before the third.

Inevitably, their friendship grows stronger. Rules begin to change. And every step forward slowly breeds a new degree of normalcy – a new set of _circumstances_, by which he learns to hide his feelings. (But give him credit for this one, yeah? At least they aren't buried so deeply anymore.)

Sometimes, if their evenings drag on long enough and they become too distracted to notice the time, Gillian falls asleep with her head on his shoulder. And then he wrestles with the decision of whether or not to wake her – to try and maneuver her upstairs and into bed (his or hers, depending on the setting), or to just stay put. To close his eyes and fall asleep right next to her, with the scent of her soft, sweet skin in the air, and the feeling of her body pressed solidly against his.

And sometimes, when the cases are exhausting and their emotions run high, he pours an extra few fingers of Scotch… plays that Sinatra song that served as the soundtrack to an evening of flirtatious apologies and dancing on the balcony… and he _forgets_ that emotions are sometimes complicated. He pictures what it would feel like to kiss her, to slide her dress to the floor and then drop to his knees, as hands and lips cover parts of her body that he's only ever seen in his fantasies.

But back to the beginning, though.

_Easy_.

Even after all they've been through – after all the tiny steps forward countered by full strides back – he still isn't quite sure if 'easy' is what he really wants.

What he _does_ want is Gillian. No surprise there, right? And he wants her in all senses of that word: romantically, sexually, sinfully, permanently. Hard, fast, slow, sensual, rough, raw, real – he wants to strip away the last of his defenses and bare the parts of himself that _even she_ has never seen. But mostly…

_Mostly_… he doesn't want to take anything for granted anymore.

He is a firm believer in the concept that anything worth _having_ is also worth fighting for. And he _has_ been, yeah? He _has_ been fighting. Fighting to be a better person, and a better partner – the kind of man who doesn't throw himself in front of bullets just to prove a point. The kind of man who doesn't try to push Gillian away, just to circumvent an inner demon who tries – even still – to convince him that she might leave.

He knows _that_ particular demon will probably always be with him, but _hey_ – he doesn't pretend to be perfect. Which is good, because Gillian has never really _expected_ perfect. She is both a realist and a romantic; the perfect counterweight to his pessimistic but oh-so-wicked imagination. Demon or none, he is slowly learning to channel his energy in a more positive direction. To continually push himself outside of his comfort zone, for her sake as well as his own.

Years earlier, if Emily had asked about his feelings for Gillian, he would have denied them. He would've changed the subject, walked out of the room entirely, or laughed at the absurdity of such a question, just for the sake of appearances.

"_Gillian. Do you love her?"_

But the way in which she'd asked – the timing and the absolute _honesty_ of the moment – caught him by surprise. Still did, in fact. As if maybe… maybe she _didn't_ actually know the answer. Which was crazy, because… didn't everyone?

When he looks back on that night now, he remembers weighing his options and finding only two: the truth, or a lie. And then he remembers what it felt like to hesitate, as his brain tried to wrap itself around each possible outcome. As it tried to 'see' how his life would change if he went with his _gut_, rather than his _fear_.

It was bloody suffocating, you know? The fear.

Trust him, the very last thought in his brain – before he spoke that single, exhilarating word to Emily – was that he was _tired_ of dragging it around, like some sort of twisted, self-imposed albatross. And he was tired of letting it win.

"_Yeah_."

There it was: the truth he'd long kept buried. Spoken _aloud_. With _**words**_, even. Or rather, with _one_ word. Just one. But hey – all journeys start somewhere, right? They all begin with a single step, and are fueled by both faith and perseverance. One foot in front of the other… one man, flawed but not fragile… one last step he is almost ready to take.

_Easy_?

Perhaps not.

But he'll be damned if he lets self-doubt and circumstance hold him back much longer.

* * *

As days turn to weeks, and weeks become months… as high school graduation leads to dormitories, packing, and campus visitations… Emily inevitably grows tired of waiting for his follow-up answer. The one in which he will finally tell her – _with certainty_ – why he's still being so stubborn. And why he continues to make everything harder than it needs to be.

'_What are you waiting for?'_

Trouble is, he doesn't have it yet. The answer. Parts of it elude him – hiding in the shadows of his mind, teasing and taunting on an endless loop. Which is bonkers, right? Of course it is. He knows that much.

He _is_ a creature of habit, though. Progress – though a bit more tangible as of late – is slow moving. There are adjustments to make, and new routines to develop… a disturbing sort of emptiness in his chest, caused by the realization that his daughter is about to leave the nest… and the sum total of changes in his life sometimes seems overwhelming. He's never known it possible to _feel_ so many things, all at once.

In the downtime – in the silences – his mind is always working. He thinks about Emily, of course. And Gillian. And _both_ of them, together. His family. It's non-traditional, but also not dysfunctional, either. It _works_ for them. It's… _safe_. Comfortable.

_**Easy**_.

There's that word again, yeah? And even now, it throws him. Makes him second-guess everything. Makes him wonder which mindset is correct: the one that just wants to fall into romantic life with Gillian… or the one that wants a challenge. Like roulette. Or maybe even poker. There _are_ high stakes involved, after all.

What _is_ he waiting for, anyway?

Talk about a million dollar question.

* * *

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

He thinks it lasts an hour, at least. Maybe longer. Maybe not. Time seems… different now. It's less constrictive. Less relative to other known things. And he questions the idea of quantifying it at all, you know? Suddenly finds the process trivial. _Painful_.

Pointless.

It's a thirty minute commute to the office – forty five if he goes there from Gillian's. It takes ninety, at least, to watch a film… double that (give or take) to watch American football… and only four to realize that the term "Empty Nest" is a piss poor way to describe what he feels. Those words don't properly convey the ache in his chest, or the nagging doubts about whether or not he _hugged_ her enough, _gave_ her enough, _supported_ her enough, to help her understand how deeply she is loved. _**Is**_. Not was. Always present tense, there. Never past.

Time, though.

It moves around them – ebbing and flowing like a populated stream, unyielding in its determination to keep everyone on some sort of schedule. And he decides that he _hates_ it, yeah? The predictability of mindless routine. Strikes him as odd that the rest of the world doesn't seem to notice how his life has changed in the last sixty minutes. Instead, they race for baggage claim or rental cars… fuss over small delays and asinine fees… _grumble_ and _whine_ and _grouse_ ad nauseum, about things that are of little real consequence. Not like, _oh_, say, the gut-wrenching realization that one's only child will now be living on the other size of the bloody _country_. Three whole time zones. It rather sickens him, to be honest.

He hears the noises in the background – the voices of the other travelers coming and going in droves. He hears announcements over speakers. Sees numbers change on brightly lit screens, to signal that _yes_, it _**is**_ getting later. Circumstances are changing. Soon enough, they will have to leave.

Sixty minutes.

That's his best guess.

He watches planes come and go without incident, and he tries to imagine where she is now. If she's excited, nervous, scared, annoyed… if she knows how much he already misses her… if maybe she misses him too, just a little bit. (Not that either of them would ever admit it aloud.)

Gillian, bless her, doesn't push him at all. She sits on his right side, silent and patient, and sometime around minute sixty five – when her left palm lands lightly on his thigh, and her head comes to rest against his shoulder – he realizes he hasn't thanked her yet. For this. For being with him, in this way. For her support and friendship and strength.

Change isn't easy. Not by a longshot.

But it's easi_**er**_ with her by his side.

Quite frankly… he's not sure could handle it if she wasn't.

* * *

It's overcast. Unseasonably cool for August in Washington, especially in the shade. He keeps his eyes hidden behind tinted lenses – finds them necessary for masking emotion, rather than sunlight – and tries to concentrate on the breeze that accompanies them across the parking lot and towards his car.

When they reach the correct row, he feels Gillian's fingers curl reassuringly against his. And it's just a _touch_, you know – neither unwelcome nor unfamiliar – and it doesn't strike him until _just then_ that he's been holding her hand. Five… six… seven minutes, maybe longer. And now that he's aware of how it _feels_ – of how soft her skin is, and how her knuckles gently brush against the outside of his leg on every third step – he decides he'd really rather not let go.

So he doesn't.

When the Prius comes into sight, his gut reaction is to reach for his keys. Which _are_, of course, in his right pocket. But his right _hand_ is in her left, so… he waits. Their steps fall into sync, and he catches her eye on a whim. There's a smile hidden in there somewhere – he just knows it – but she's reserved and polite enough to keep it at bay. She doesn't want to drag him, kicking and screaming if needed, into happiness, and she certainly doesn't want to guilt him, either. She's gifted that way. Knows that the contact _is_, for now, enough.

He isn't quite ready to smile again.

They make it all the way to the passenger door before he gives an awkward gesture towards his hip and begrudgingly pulls his hand from hers. And he _almost_ apologizes – has the words on the tip of his tongue, even – but bites them back at the last second. No explanation necessary. She already knows what he was going to say.

Once the keys are out of his pocket and in his palm, he presses the 'unlock' button, then reaches _around_ her to open the passenger side door. It's unnecessary – she's perfectly capable of opening it herself, and it's not as though they are on a bloody _date_ – but her eyes tell him that she enjoyed it. The attention. It's both unsolicited and unexpected, and he doesn't quite realize he's done anything special at all, until he's already walking to his own door and the mental 'replay' catches him off guard.

And he thinks that _maybe_… maybe he should hold her hand more often.

* * *

He gets no further than starting the engine before the pressure stars to build up in his chest. Memories, yeah? Signs. They're even in the sodding _car_, and he hadn't expected that. Hadn't paid them much attention till now. There's a random assortment of hair ties, lip gloss, and chewing gum in his console, and – God love her – even a tea bag. You know, just in case they might one day find themselves stranded by the side of the road with scalding hot water and nothing with which to flavor it. Typical Emily, right? Always prepared.

Glancing up, he spots a handful of receipts tucked up under his visor, including one for the graduation gift that Gillian helped him choose, and _two_ from meals that they'd all shared together. And when his eyes start to burn, he decides that he's either becoming a sentimental bastard at breakneck speed, or there's some sort of mental incapacitation that sparks when a man sends his daughter off to find her future by way of a window seat and a bear hug.

At this rate, he figures he'll need therapy by September.

(Possibly sooner.)

"She'll call when she lands, then?" Gillian tentatively asks.

It's a baseline. They both know it. But instead of stating the obvious and using _that_ word, he just nods. Watches the clock. Tries to figure out how Emily went from age eight to eigh_teen_ in the blink of an eye.

"She's good about those things," he finally manages. "Promised to phone me once a week, minimum. And to text every few days, just so I don't go stark raving mad without her here to keep me in line. Funny, right? Always thought she knew that I crossed that particular bridge a few years back."

Self-depreciation at its finest, ladies and gentlemen. And _yes_ – just in case you were wondering, he _does_ know it's a bad habit. Trouble is… it's _also_ a coping mechanism. A "crutch" on which he leans, when he isn't quite ready to face a particularly sensitive truth. Anyone else would probably laugh politely at his little _non_-joke, but Gillian doesn't. She's too smart for that. Too "in tune" to what makes him tick, and she knows – without a doubt – that he's walking a fine line. Trying to hold his emotions together, lest they swallow him whole.

And so instead of laughter, she gives this mostly-silent little huff under her breath, and says…

"You didn't cross it _permanently_. You might've taken a sight-seeing tour a time or two, but come on – admit it. It's been a while now since your last near-death experience, right? So give yourself a little credit. Besides, Emily is a very smart girl. Smart enough to know that the _next_ time you venture into the land of bullets, bombs, and insanity, _I_ will be there to drag you back again. Kicking and screaming, if needed."

She pauses here. Takes a moment to let the words settle, and he mistakenly thinks she's done – that she'll let him sulk in silence, now… maybe reach out to touch his leg again, or fuss with the radio, or do something to turn the attention _away_ from the obvious – meaning Emily's departure – and _onto_ something else. That she'll somehow distract him.

Because that's what he _wants. _A distraction. At least a temporary one. Something that will last until her plane lands; until he can hear her voice again and know that she made it safely. That she _isn't_ hovering thousands of feet above the earth, in a piece of machinery built by fallible corporations who _don't_ always have the best track record when it comes to safety.

(He knows, because he checked.)

And Gillian, _being_ Gillian, does provide one. She waits ten, twenty, maybe even thirty seconds or so, and then – just as he'd hoped she might – brings her palm back to rest on his leg. It's halfway between his knee and the mid-point on his thigh, and he feels his entire femur begin to tingle. Magical powers, she has. He wonders if she's aware they exist.

"I _will_ be there to drag you back again," she re-iterates. And he can't help but notice that she changes which word is emphasized, now. She's gone from "I" to "will" and even that slight differentiation makes the entire thought _sound_ different. He wonders if it was deliberate.

"But please, Cal – for both our sakes. Don't let there be a next time. Deal?"

_Christ_.

He feels his face grow warm in self-conscious heat within a fraction of a second, as he instinctively dissects the multiple meanings behind her words. And for the most part, he's handling the whole thing pretty well – understands that it was meant to be a gentle reminder that they are beyond that, now. That _he_ is beyond it. Unnecessary risks. He's learning to channel his energy in a different direction; to use his words – however unnatural they might seem – and communicate in ways that _aren't_ the adult equivalent of pulling pigtails or snapping her bra.

This is Gillian's way of reminding him that he's human. That she doesn't want him to use Emily's departure as an excuse to throw his walls back up again; to reinforce them with steel beams and high-tech security. That she wants him to be accessible. And, last but not least, that she appreciates his effort.

Few words. Big punch. She's talented, that way.

Her hand squeezes his thigh and then pats it, then lifts to stroke his forearm instead. And just in case you were wondering… the answer is _yes_. He tingles there, too. The woman is talented in many ways, apparently. And she is a master of distraction. Could probably make him forget his own _name_, if given enough motivation.

Still, though, he knows she's waiting for an answer. Her question was not rhetorical, and he doesn't intend to leave her hanging. _So_. He nods ever-so slightly, as he glances down to watch her fingers curl against his skin, and then it's his turn to give a little huff under his breath, as he manages a single word in reply. "Deal," he says.

And he means it.

* * *

They're halfway towards the office before the traffic begins to drive him insane. It's more congested than normal, and he dodges in and out of lanes, trying not to get stuck behind the endless stream of wankers who are determined to slow him down. Even behind the wheel, he doesn't handle stillness well.

They pass three construction zones and two accidents, get stuck at every single traffic light in the entire city (give or take a dozen), and his nerves feel totally frayed. There are too many thoughts in his head, and he needs something on which to focus his energy. Something tangible. And for just a moment – maybe two – he considers asking Gillian to put her hand back on his thigh.

Pathetic, right? Of course it is. But everything still feels… off kilter.

He grumbles in response to the other drivers – drops random four-letter words, says "bloody" about twenty-five times, and pokes the radio controls with enough force that for a moment, he fears they might've cracked. And while he's busy having his little meltdown (…_read: tantrum_…), Gillian doesn't speak at all. Instead, she sighs. _Softly_. Even manages to incorporate a sympathetic "tone" to the gesture, too, though he can't quite figure out howthat's even possible. But there it is again, yeah? She's talented.

She's his blind spot, even now.

* * *

He steers the Prius towards the Group automatically. It's just instinct. And granted, they don't have any particular schedule to keep – there are no meetings, no pressing deadlines, no real reason to go there at all, save for the fact that he _wants_ to. He wants to go there, _with her_. Only her. Where's the crime in that?

Besides…

Working on Saturdays used to be their "thing." Their routine. Their time, together, to be whatever they wanted to be – scientists, partners, friends, goofballs… even all of the above, simultaneously. They used to share lunch in the lab, talk budgets in Gill's office, dare to daydream in his, and he _misses_ it. Misses being able to relax with her, without the pressures of time and circumstance hanging over his head.

"_What are you waiting for?"_

Just for a few hours, he'd rather not hear that question echoing in the background.

And neutral territory suddenly seems like a really good idea.

If they go to Gillian's place, he knows that he'll inevitably leave. Which is, unfortunately, the heart of the problem. He'll stay anywhere from five minutes to five hours, but eventually the entire evening will pass. And _then_, despite the concern he's sure to hear in her voice, or the suggestion that he should _'just stay a little bit longer_,' to watch a film, or share pizza, or play cards in her living room (_hey_ – she's quite good at Blackjack) … he'll go home. To silence. And then he'll sit on the couch or toss in his bed, and fight the urge to do something stupid, like drink. Or obsess. Or over-analyze everything. Like how he will have let yet another day pass by without telling her those three magical words.

**But**. On the other side of that coin is option number _two_.

Rest assured, it fares no better.

If they go to his place, _she_ will inevitably stay. She'll humor him by eating curry, or she'll sit on the couch and stroke his ego – tell him sweet things, and fall asleep against his shoulder, and make it next to bloody impossible not to tell her how badly he wants her.

Rock versus hard place. He is _right there_, stuck between them. Tired of standing still, and yet – mostly for reasons he'd rather not admit – still hesitant to move forward.

Their timing, yeah? It rather sucks.

If he's forced to explain himself in actual _words_, rather than in nonsensical grunts and facial tics, then he'd do it like this: despite knowing exactly how he feels… despite being completely in love with Gillian… he doesn't want _this step_ to be taken _this way_. Meaning that five, ten, twenty years down the line, he doesn't want to look back on his life and wonder if she was motivated by pity. By empathy. And he definitely doesn't want to give the impression that he's afraid to be alone, or – worse yet – that he's just using her to fill the void created by Emily's departure.

It feels like a delicate balance. Like a tightrope, of sorts.

A _line_, but with higher stakes.

She figures it out soon enough, though. His plan. She's a very observant woman, and she knows him better than anyone else ever has. Possibly better than he knows himself, even – crazy though that probably sounds.

They are twenty minutes from the office (give or take a few more traffic mishaps) when he feels the weight of her palm land on his thigh once again. It's warm and reassuring, and yes – right on cue – the tingling returns. "Tell you what?" she starts. "_I'll_ help you catalogue footage in the lab, and _you_ can help me with some invoicing. We'll order in, drink Scotch on the balcony… and if I'm feeling generous, I'll even let you beat me at poker."

Heh. _That_?

The last two-thirds of her enticing little offer?

He sees it as pure, tangible proof that she doesn't fight fair. And he decides that it's worth repeating: magical powers. She bloody well has them in spades. Still, though, he has to hand it to her: it's the first time he's felt happy all afternoon. So if _that_ was her goal, well then… mission accomplished.

"What do you mean by '_**let'**_ me beat you, love?" he says. And _of course_ he starts there. It's the most tempting carrot she dangled, and he loves her even more for doing so. "Poker is my game, Gill. _I'm_ the one who taught it to _you_, and in all the times we've played together, I've never lost. Why would that change now?"

His tone is neither arrogant nor sarcastic. It's understated instead – uncharacteristically full of softness, with a hint of good humor around the edges that he knows she can hear. He fights back the urge to smile, though. He fights it _hard_. But at the last possible second, when her hand ventures just a little bit higher on his leg, and he catches sight of her fingers as they wrap around denim once again… it's there. The smile. His lips curl ever-so slightly, as his breath _wooshes_ out in disbelief and his lids briefly close. He hasn't felt this particular combination of emotions before, and it's stronger than he expected.

Much stronger.

(Not that he's complaining.)

"Lots of things can change," she finally counters. "Life, circumstances, relationships, and yes – even poker stats. I think that's a lesson we all have to learn eventually: that change doesn't have to be scary. Sometimes it _is_. And sometimes it's _hard_. But it doesn't have to be. Because sometimes… change is _exactly_ what we need."

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Just wanted to say Thank You to everyone who has read or reviewed this story - much appreciated! Hope you will enjoy this chapter as well. :)

* * *

"_Lots of things can change," she finally counters. "Life, circumstances, relationships, and yes – even poker stats. I think that's a lesson we all have to learn eventually: that change doesn't have to be scary. Sometimes it _is_. And sometimes it's _hard_. But it doesn't have to be. Because sometimes… change is _exactly_ what we need."_

* * *

Hours later – after Emily's plane lands, and after they fill a few too many hours pretending their work couldn't have waited until Monday – they sit in his office, sharing pizza and beer and reminiscing about the early days of their partnership. Gillian's _words_ remind him how far they've come since then… how much they've already learned from one another… and her _kindness_ reminds him how lucky he is, to still have her in his life.

Poker?

_Yes_, they do that, too.

After she wins eight straight hands, he decides that she's either been faking it all along – letting him win, just for the sake of flattery – _or_, she's gotten a tutor. Someone good. Someone (though he'll never speak these words aloud) who has taught her how to play the game _better_ than he does. Perhaps she's a much more skilled liar than he ever realized.

By sunset, her winnings stack up as follows: forty dollars in cash, one bottle of scotch, a pair of tickets to an upcoming Capitols game, _and_ bragging rights to tell the office that **yes**, she _did_, in fact, beat the master himself. Rest assured, there isn't a chance in bloody hell that he'll underestimate her again. In card games or otherwise. Lesson learned.

He's three-quarters finished with his first beer (_not scotch_) when she gets that look in her eyes that tells him things are about to turn serious. And by serious, he means emotional. And by emotional… he means Emily.

_Christ_.

She really should not be so good at this, yeah? At getting him to talk. At being so goddamn _kind_, and _warm_, and _disarming_, as to pull handfuls of sentences out of his mouth whilst keeping him in the dark about the whole thing. It's just… it's _scary_, sometimes, when he considers how well she knows him. Almost as if she has a tiny little portal to the inner workings of his mind, and is every bit as complicit in the "_What are you waiting for_?" nonsense as he still is.

Which is ridiculous, right?

At this rate, Emily will receive her bloody Master's degree before he finds the courage to leap.

He hears himself say the words "I didn't think it would be this hard to let her go," and _that's_ when he feels it. Gillian's hand. She puts her drink on the side table and drops her palm to his leg again, so that it once again owns the space just above his knee. And the gesture is _innocent_, mostly. It's just the gentle, calming brush of her hand against denim as she is careful not to push the conversation in any particular direction at all. It's safe. Familiar. _Easy_.

And yet… it somehow _isn't_.

Typical Lightman and Foster, that. It's a dynamic that keeps him on his toes even now. One that makes the tingle in his leg spread upward, warming as it goes, to finally settle above his heart. Which is a cliché, he realizes, but he lacks the presence of mind to actually care.

"Cal?" she tries.

And honestly? He almost stops her. _Almost_. Because he's right – it _is_ a cliché. And maybe he _does_ care, just a little. But he catches the slightest hint of hesitation in her eyes… hears something _new_ in her voice, when she speaks his name, and so…he doesn't.

He listens, instead.

"I know you miss her already," she offers. Sincerely. "And I know that you've probably been thinking about everything you _wish_ you'd said, or all the things you _wish_ you'd taught her – like how to make curry in her dorm room, or how to execute a proper kidney punch, just in case some guy gets out of line. But trust me on this one, okay? She _knows_ that you love her. Distance won't change that. There could be two _dozen_ miles between you or two _thousand_, but I promise… she'll still feel that love."

He's not sure which one of them breaks eye contact first (it's probably him), but seconds after he hears the word "love" leave her lips, he starts to feel… what's the word he needs, here?... claustrophobic. He can't quite catch his breath, and the temperature in the room shoots up at least ten degrees, and he's torn between wanting her palm to slide _further_ up his thigh, to hoping that she removes it altogether. Everything feels raw. _Too_ raw. He can't seem to find his mental footing.

Luckily, though… Gillian finds it _for_ him in a matter of seconds.

Her fingers give his leg one final squeeze, then they move to cover his hand instead. It's meant to be a gesture of comfort and friendship – nothing more, nothing less – and he knows that. _But_. When his hand automatically turns beneath hers… when his fingers automatically _lace_ with hers, and their palms connect… he feels something in the air begin to change.

It's yet another cliché, right?

Probably so.

The day is riddled with them, it seems.

Realizing that she's the one who has done nearly all of the actual talking, guilt starts to creep in. Not entirely unsurprising, that. But then again, she knows that he's a man of few words – that he prefers action over speech – and she isn't pressuring him for a reply. Instead, he's pressuring _himself_.

(Which is something else that's not entirely unsurprising.)

He's handling their proximity just fine; is not bothered by scent of her skin, or the sound of her soft, gentle breathing. But moments later, when she shifts just a fraction closer and brings her head to rest on his shoulder, as her free hand curls around his wrist and her fingertips flutter across the backs of his knuckles… the need to say _something_ – anything – overtakes all rational though.

So he clears his throat. Takes an embarrassingly deep breath and releases it through his nose. And then says…

"Do you really think she knows, Gill? Because… well, '_love_,' yeah? It's a tricky thing. Full of risk. Not to be taken lightly. And it kills me to think that I might do – or that I might _have done_ – something to cause her to doubt me. Something that will put even more distance between us, than what's already there."

His voice breaks between sentences, and pauses much more than is probably necessary. And basically, he just does a piss poor job of keeping up the pretense that they are still discussing Emily. They aren't. He knows it, and based on the way Gillian's fingers tighten against his… he suspects that _she_ knows it, too.

'Pretense,' though.

Meaning _the act _of pretending.

It's a talent that comes naturally for both of them. And it's quite possibly one of the worst habits they'll need to break.

"I think..." she starts.

And when her voice drops away on the second word, his stomach begins to claw its way up to his throat. Ridiculous, isn't it? He's a grown man. One who doesn't often fear anything. And yet, in _this_ context – in _this_ type of intimate setting, where his heart is on his sleeve, and he doesn't have total control over all the variables – he's partially paralyzed. He rather hates himself a bit, to be honest.

"I think 'distance' is a relative thing," she finishes. "I think maybe our minds have a tendency to… _alter_ it. To make it fit whatever perception we already have."

He's smiling before she even finishes speaking, because _of course_ she leads with psychology. That's just "_her_." It's part of what he loves best about her personality. And granted, there have been times – more than he cares to admit – when her need to "shrink" him (to "_fix_" him) has driven him completely mad. The phrase "_Go mother someone else_" springs to mind immediately and he winces at the memory, because _yes_, he understands that it was a horrible thing to say.

But now…

_Now_ he can see it for what it really is: it's a way to show that she cares. That she loves him, too – warts, quirks, dysfunction and all.

He's not expecting a follow-up. Doesn't think she'll expand past what she already said, because she doesn't really need to. He _gets_ it. She cares, just as much as he does. She's there through thick and thin, in good times and in bad – the whole bloody package, really. He _gets_ that, without a doubt. Feels like a total idiot for wasting so much time playing games – for trying to push her away because of some innate, insane belief that she would've just left on her own.

Bonkers, that.

Because clearly, the woman is as stubborn as he is.

So when she _does_ follow up – when her fingertips _do_ begin to trace patterns against his knuckles, as she takes two deep breaths and gives this tiny little satisfied sigh that is barely audible, despite the stillness of his office – his heart begins to pound. It speeds and then slows in erratic rhythms that make him feel _hot_ and _cold_ and _delirious_, all at the same time. And he wants to smile again, but he can't. He _can't_. He's beyond that, now. Everything begins and ends with the sound of Gillian's voice. His muscles don't want to cooperate.

"I don't think 'love' is something you can put in a box," she tries. And then she squeezes his hand as she breathes out slowly, letting those words settle before adding anything new. It's as if each sentence is being carefully weighed and chosen. She doesn't want to rush forward too fast and risk saying the wrong thing.

(They are so similar, in that regard.)

"It's not neat, and it's not simple. It… it _changes_, you know? It evolves. And when it's unconditional – when love is truly_, wholly_ unconditional – then as long as the other person knows how you feel, even two thousand miles won't be enough to fracture it. But. When it remains _unspoken_… I think physical distance can seem larger. More intimidating. The mind plays tricks, you know? Tries to convince the heart that it hasn't _done_ enough, or been worthy enough to make the other person stay."

Gillian no doubt sees the way his eyes widen in surprise, at the realization that she's just taken all the thoughts, doubts, fears, and insecurities in his mind, and seamlessly channeled them into a handful of sentences. She gets it. She really, _really_ gets it. And he is both humbled and ashamed to have waited this goddamn long to reach this particular crossroads.

"You love Emily unconditionally," she continues. "You've told her that, _with words_. She knows you'll always be there for her – whether you're on the other side of the country, or on the other side of the same house. Trust me. She just _knows_."

Just as every coin has two sides, he is keenly aware that every _spoken_ truth has the potential to highlight one that isn't. And Gillian's words – while being eloquent and insightful enough to make his throat run dry – are no exception. He sees a flip side in _them_, too.

'_**With words.'**_

That's the bridge he hasn't crossed, yet; the one that hangs suspended, like a precarious pink elephant. And he knows it can only defy gravity for so long.

"Same goes for you too, Gill," he says. Impulsively. Without fear, or rationalization, or any of the trademark "Cal-isms" that he tends to favor when nervous. He does _not_ deflect. He does _not_ joke. He does _not_ flinch. He simply shifts left a bit, so that their hands fall to her leg – still entwined – and he can see the way her skin flushes ever-so slightly as his gaze tracks her face.

There is tension, of course. The moment feels charged with it – almost vibrant, as if it has been transformed into something bigger than they'd expected to see. And he considers saying something else. Something poignant. Something that will match the poetic truth behind her speech about distance.

'_I love you_?'

Yes, _**that**_.

The words are right there, on the tip of his tongue – heavy and heartfelt, seeming simultaneously too large and too small to fit the moment.

She blinks at him. Gives a fraction of a smile. Pulls their hands higher up on her thigh, until his knuckles brush across territory he's never explored before. And _part_ of it matches the fantasy he's always had. The one in which they finally cross the threshold between friends and lovers… the one in which everything "clicks" so seamlessly into place. He gets a taste of that happiness – just a single breath that fills him with exhilaration – but it's gone a second later, when Gillian breaks the spell.

Yes, that's right: _Gillian_ breaks the spell.

Not him.

She presses her lips against the back of his hand and then returns it to her lap with a tired sigh. And he's too confused to make guesses as to what she wants to say. Too distracted by how it _right_ it felt to have her mouth against his skin. But she _is_ smiling, yeah?

He decides to take that as a good sign.

"I don't think I've ever told you this before," she tries, and then pauses. It's a trademark, apparently – one of the idiosyncratic "things" about their conversation style that he's never noticed before. The stopping and starting. They're both being extra careful to keep their balance.

When she breaks eye contact with him, he automatically dips his head lower – makes all sorts of awkward faces at her, until she giggles and soon gives in to his persuasion. It's his non-verbal way of telling her that he trusts her; that he isn't going anywhere. And that he's happiest when they are together.

Two steps forward… one step back. But he just _knows_ they'll find the finish line eventually.

"I should have told you, though," she hesitantly continues. "I mean, it seems silly to have kept it a secret. But a few months ago – it wasn't too long after Claire's funeral, actually – Emily asked me about our relationship. Yours and mine. She wanted to know if we were waiting for something."

Waiting.

_**Waiting**_.

His eyes narrow a bit, as the penny drops and he realizes that his well-intentioned daughter must've had a version of the "_What are you waiting for_?" conversation with Gillian, too. Which was both sneaky and ingenious, and not really all that surprising, considering that Emily loves them both. She wants them to be happy. But most importantly…

She wants them to be happy _together_.

That's the most important bit.

His first instinct is to laugh aloud, because he really _should_ have seen this particular revelation coming from a hundred miles away, yeah? But he doesn't laugh, and he doesn't grin – he barely even breathes, to be honest – because Gillian isn't finished, yet. She's still talking. Saying something about timing and circumstance… something about lines, and rules, and risk.

"_Yeah, well… you're the one who takes unnecessary risks."_

"_Not when it comes to you."_

Oh.

Bloody _hell_, it feels as if that conversation happened a whole lifetime ago. And when he remembers it now, he does so in a different context. Through a different pair of eyes. He sees the possibility for Gillian to have misinterpreted his words; for her to have assumed that he didn't want… _this_. **Her**.

_**Love**_.

It's as if they don't possess a happy medium. Their communication skills are either all or nothing – they either _work_ or they _don't_ – and it leaves too much room for confusion in the middle. Too many gaps that are filled with wasted time. But he doesn't know how to actually say all of that, though (_shocking, isn't it_?), so he settles on a question instead.

"Do you mean like a _sign_ then, darling?"

And yes, it's a copout. He knows that. But the fact that he hasn't yet fled the room – that he's still sitting there, with one hand entwined with hers, and his heart on his sleeve – does count as progress, right? It's a step in the right direction. He's getting there. He's _trying_.

He just needs…

"Yes, exactly," she agrees. "Like a sign."

He just needs _that_, maybe.

A sign.

Maybe they both do.

"You and I," Gillian continues, "we have this level of trust between us that most people don't get to experience. This advantage that the science affords. Meaning that we can see things – real, tangible, _difficult_ things – that other people can't. We aren't blind to any of it, Cal. Not the fear, not the doubt, and certainly not the depth of emotion. _I_ can see it, and so can you. And I just think…"

If he were actually able to _breathe_, hyperventilation might be a distinct possibility. And in the brief span of silence that suddenly envelopes the room, he feels everything begin to grow dim. His hands are clammy, and his tongue feels two sizes too big for his mouth, and he doesn't remember this particular piece of the puzzle being in any of his fantasies.

It isn't an easy conversation to have.

But then again… maybe being difficult is the only thing that will make it feel _real_.

"I think maybe that _**is**_ what we're waiting for," she finishes. "Because if both of us truly can see everything, and we still haven't done something about it? Then… maybe it just isn't quite the right time for us, yet."

Lord knows Gillian Foster has any number of reasons to tell him to go straight to hell – not the least of which is his tendency to use a 'hurt them first' philosophy on everyone in his life, save Emily. And _only_ Emily, yeah? Gillian is no stranger to standing in the crosshairs of his self-destruction _or_ his anger. Fight or Flight has long been his modus operandi, in much the same way as '_Truth or happiness – never both_,' is his motto. He's… intense, you know? A very _trying_ man to love.

But she does.

He can see it.

He isn't _afraid_ to see it, now.

And maybe she's right.

Maybe they're _both_ just waiting for a sign.

* * *

**A/N**: One more chapter to go…


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Just a quick disclaimer - Sections of this chapter are pretty strong T. Enjoy!

* * *

"_I think maybe that __**is**__ what we're waiting for," she finishes. "Because if both of us truly can see everything, and we still haven't done something about it? Then… maybe it just isn't quite the right time for us, yet."_

_Lord knows Gillian Foster has any number of reasons to tell him to go straight to hell – not the least of which is his tendency to use a 'hurt them first' philosophy on everyone in his life, save Emily. And _only_ Emily, yeah? Gillian is no stranger to standing in the crosshairs of his self-destruction _or_ his anger. Fight or Flight has long been his modus operandi, in much the same way as '_Truth or happiness – never both,_' is his motto. He's… intense, you know? A very _trying_ man to love._

_But she does._

_He can see it._

_He isn't _afraid_ to see it, now._

_And maybe she's right._

_Maybe they're _both_ just waiting for a sign._

* * *

His conscious mind doesn't really hear the siren at first. The loud, cyclic screeching is a bit too far away to be intrusive, and he's so caught up in his dream that the noise doesn't wake him fully. Not yet. Instead, his mind tries to _merge_ the two, you know? To blend reality with fantasy. One accepts the other and then starts to change the parameters, so that everything makes sense.

He sees them on a beach. In the sunshine. With water lapping at their ankles and sand clinging to their backs, and they're _smiling_. Both of them. They're laughing at each other's jokes, and her skin is flushed in all the right places, and he swoops her up into his arms, spins her around in playful abandon, before gently placing her beneath the shade of an umbrella, atop a soft, plush towel.

His senses insist that it's reality – that he isn't actually dreaming at all. And he can _feel_ the heat of her skin beneath his palms, as he covers her body with his own and delights in the way she grips at him eagerly. Her hands curl around his shoulders, and his lips meet hers on a groan. His mouth opens to her, and as they kiss – hot, wet, passionate, and desperate – his right hand slowly skates down… down… down, _past_ the swell of her breast and the curve of her waist, to the tiny little bow that rides low on her hip. The ties that bind her bottoms tease his fingertips, and with just a single, tiny tug… the knot comes undone. _Voila_. She's free.

His hand is _itching_ to touch her; it's desperate to explore the territory he's just uncovered, and he can see that she's desperate, too. Her breath hitches, as her nails rake _over_ his shoulders and _down_ his back, and she says his name on a groan. "…Cal…"

The sound of that single syllable is practically his undoing – it nearly snaps his self-control. And when he grits his teeth in frustration… when his fingers roughly pull at the knot on her _other_ hip, as he hurries to yank the skimpy, pink material out of the way… there it is again. The siren. It's ringing louder now. It's loud enough to almost drown out the sound of Gillian's voice completely.

Bloody inconsiderate, that.

He wants to make the noise stop – to figure out _why_ it's even there with them, in paradise. But she's groaning in his ear, and her warmth is so inviting, and his body is practically screaming in protest at the thought of switching gears now. _Now_, of all times. When he's mere moments away from thrusting inside her.

"…Cal…"

She sounds insistent. Calls for him in a sharp, low tone that lands somewhere at the base of his skull and reverberates _up_, until it rattles through his brain. And then he notices that he can't feel the sand quite as easily… that the sunshine has dimmed, and the waves seem farther away, and that something feels… off. He's being pulled back to the surface – shaken from an idyllic dream (and _**yes**_, this is the moment in which he becomes aware that he's actually been dreaming) to face a reality that isn't nearly as erotic.

Call him stubborn, or stupid, or even just plain horny (all three are accurate), but even though he is no longer sleeping… he isn't completely awake yet, either. He's dozing, yeah? Refusing to open his eyes at all, or to actively think about much of anything, just in case he might be able to will his mind to finish what it started – to press "play" on his dream again, and see just how far his imagination would let things go.

"…_Cal_…"

He feels a hand begin to shake his shoulder, as that horrible, grating, monstrosity of a siren seems to morph from being a background nuisance, to a foreground terror. It's loud enough to make him want to rip his ears _off_, now. And by the time he realizes that there's absolutely zero hope of reclaiming his dream, he also realizes that Gillian is _right there_. In his current reality. That he truly _had_ felt her touch on his shoulders, and heard her calling his name. One… two… three times, in total.

Yet the sunshine is gone.

_Paradise_ is gone.

Goddamn his terrible luck.

His eyes pop open in annoyance, and then he winces at the mind-numbingly _awful_ noise that seems to be emanating from somewhere nearby. The siren. It sounds like a car alarm – or a dozen of them, actually – and he decides that if it doesn't stop soon, he will go completely insane. Certifiable, really. Men with straightjackets will need to toss him in a padded cell.

And trust him, that sound is the _only_ thing he notices at first. The rest of it doesn't hit him until a few seconds later, and when it does… his reaction is comical. He blinks with the speed of a hummingbird's wing, trying to get his eyes adjusted to the light (artificial, not sun). And once he can actually see, Gillian's face is the sight that greets him first. Then he notices her shoulders, arms, hands, body… yeah. The words '_**right there**_' were a bit of an understatement. Because she's even _closer_ than that. They are as close together as it's possible to be, without him actually being inside of her.

So he smiles. Despite the awful noise, and the ache in his back, and the fact that he doesn't understand where in bloody hell they actually _are_, yet… he smiles. He likes being so close to her.

Gillian, however, does not smile.

She is sandwiched between his chest and the back of the sofa, and aside from looking beautiful – which she always does – she's covering her right ear with her right hand as she grimaces in discomfort. Her left hand makes one more 'shake' against his shoulder before she nudges and wiggles (…kneeing him in the groin as she goes…), and then that hand clamps over her left ear, too. Perhaps the men with straightjackets will throw them in the same cell.

"Cal, get up!"

He catches the full brunt of her next wiggle in one testicle, and when he recoils in pain – when his knees draw _up_ and his rear end juts _out_, as his body reacts with instinct, rather than finesse - he falls straight to the floor, and catches the heel of a shoe in the _other_ testicle. Insult to injury. Now he knows exactly how that feels.

So, he grumbles and groans – he lets out a few stray "fucks" and mutters something about his scrotum that he hopes she doesn't hear – and then squints up at her with an embarrassed frown. "How about down, Gill?" he tries, aiming for humor, just to try and cover his wounded pride. "I got _down_, not up. And if you'd like to take another shot at my tackle, suppose you could do me a favor and introduce it to something a little bit friendlier on the next go? Knees, love. They're quite lovely, but not exactly soft."

Mind you, because that bloody psychotic alarm is still blaring in the background, he can't exactly speak those things to her at a normal volume. He has to shout them, instead. Full bore, and (_aside from the comment about his scrotum_) without any embarrassment at all. It's an odd situation, to say the least. He's sleepy, pained, confused, half deafened, and all but screaming an update on the status of his… happy place… as Gillian looks on in apologetic shock, with her hands still clamped over her ears as she scrambles to sit upright.

"We need to find the keys," she shouts right back at him – shock fading into a blend of exasperation and annoyance as she drops to the floor beside him, takes one hand away from her ear, and reaches for his pocket. His front pocket. The one that is very, very close to where his manhood is currently hidden, stubbornly half hard, despite attacks from both the knee and the shoe.

_(Hey_ – don't judge him. It was a very bloody good dream, and the loss of it makes him ache in a way that _isn't_ the result of a collision with his testicles.)

So, when Gillian's fingers pat down against that pocket – very narrowly avoiding the eye of the storm (so to speak) as she does – and then move upward to begin tucking themselves inside, his jaw drops open and a singular thought hits him like a lightning bolt: _**now**_. He wants her right bloody _now_, right bloody _here_, and he doesn't much care if an entire symphony of sirens, air horns, stampeding elephants, or freight trains tears through the parking lot in a crescendo of epic proportions, so long as it doesn't separate his body from hers.

"The keys," she tries again – still shouting. "Where are they?"

And he's about to tell her.

Honestly, he is.

But a beat later – when she suddenly goes wrist-deep inside the _wrong_ pocket – his eyes widen in both shock and overwhelming arousal. Quite determined, she is. And quite dexterous. It takes no time at all for his breath to seize, as both of his hands begin to spasm against the floor and he finds himself torn between the urge to throw himself right on top of her, or just wait it out and let her finish her search.

"Next time, I'll be sure to wear my easy-access jeans," he mutters, just because he's… _well_… **him**. The words are instinct. They're a mix of embarrassment, pride, and desire that's so bloody strong, his head (the one that sits atop his shoulders, not beneath thick, confining denim) feels like it just might burst.

Gillian, though, doesn't react to his quip. She doesn't meet his eyes, and she certainly doesn't laugh. Maybe she didn't even hear him at all. Because while _he _might currently be riding the mental fast track toward consummation, _she_… is not. There's a delay between them that he can't quite understand. A metaphoric canyon that divides his reality (or lack thereof) from hers.

Before he can say another word, though, she yanks at his pocket (still the wrong one) with renewed force and sends him toppling sideways. She's surprisingly strong for her size, and he doesn't even try to resist. He'd be a bloody fool for that, yeah? So he just kind of slumps there on the floor, as she gets on all fours and hovers over his body. It's not a bad position to be in. It has certain… _perks_, if you will. She's damned cute when she's flustered.

"That's _your_ car alarm," she shouts, "and we need to find _your_ keys to shut it off. _Now_. So either you _help_ me find them, or I swear to God, Cal, I'm going to rip your pants off and find them myself!"

Silence.

Oh, bloody hell, the silence.

It's blissful and sudden, and arrives sometime after Gillian says "_help me_" but before she says "_swear to God_." Which, therefore, means that when she shouted the words "_I'm going to rip your pants off_," she did so without any other background noise to buffer her enthusiasm.

Talk about a moment he'll always remember, yeah?

Now. Keep in mind that while all of this is unfolding – while he's trying to decide on an appropriate reaction to what he's just heard – he's also becoming hyperaware of exactly _where_ they are, and _what_ they're doing, and _how_ they wound up in a tangle on the floor sometime in the middle of the night.

The '**where**' is simple: they're in his office. And the '**what**' is _also_ simple: they've been sleeping, face to face on the sofa, before being rudely interrupted by the loudest car alarm in the history of the world. Which _was_, apparently, his.

But the 'how,' though? That part is a bit… trickier. It's fuzzy. When he tries to remember the details, he finds them muted by both slumber and alcohol. And while he _isn't_ drunk – he isn't even close to it, actually – he's so completely _thrown_ by the emotions he sees on her face, that he's tempted to push the boundaries of propriety farther than they've ever been pushed before.

He clears his throat. Tilts his head and leans forward, as every fiber of his being merges together into one insistent urge, and his tongue darts out to wet lips that ache to touch hers. "Gillian, I…" he tries, and then stops. His voice comes out rougher than expected. It sounds thick and rich and raw – like bittersweet pain – and it's then, _right then_, when he sees it again. That metaphoric canyon. They aren't on the same page, yet.

And so he backpedals. "Tight pockets," he covers. Weakly. "Must've shifted the wrong way in my sleep and turned the bloody alarm _on_, then shifted again to turn it off. So… apologies for the ruptured eardrum, and all that."

It's not even close to what he wants to tell her, but it seems to work in a pinch and it breaks the tension that her "rip your pants off" caused. It feels a bit like one step forward and two steps back, but hey – she's smiling. He'll take it.

On second thought, no – no she isn't '_just'_ smiling. She's laughing, too. Because _yes_, the situation **is** pretty funny. They have the oddest luck sometimes.

Just for the record? He's always loved the sound of her laugh. It's light and delicate – almost bubbly, like a simmering broth. The smile that accompanies it begins in her eyes but slowly spreads across the rest of her features, until it finally settles in her mouth. And _oh_, how he loves that mouth. How he wants to claim it – to possess it with his own – until they both succumb to passion.

With that possibility currently off the table, though, he'll gladly settle for conversation instead.

He grins and murmurs at her – something inane about oversized key fobs and the benefits of elastic waists. Then he gestures down at himself absentmindedly, and sees that her fingers are still right there. Two of them are literally tucked _into_ the top edge of his tight pocket, and the others linger against the denim as though they're weighed down by indecision. To stay or to leave, yeah? That truly is the question.

"At least we know it works," he says lamely. "And I, for one, pity the would-be thief who ever dares to second guess the potency of a Prius' alarm."

It's a pathetic attempt at conversation if ever he's ever heard one, but he doesn't much care. Partly because those particular words don't wind up putting either one of them beneath a spotlight… and partly because he packed enough eyebrow wiggling around the word 'potency' to serve them well for the next five years. And he bloody loves it when her light, bubbly laugh soon builds into something… _more_. Something happier. Something that's completely lacking in fear and full of something else.

It's hope.

Perhaps there's a bridge between that canyon after all.

* * *

He walks over to his desk and drops his keys onto its surface with a metallic thud. And he's just about to say something else – to ask her if she wants another drink, maybe – when he turns on his heel _expecting_ to see her seated on the sofa, but finds her standing right in front of him instead. No shoes, yeah? He's at a bit of a disadvantage without the click of her heels to warn him of an approach.

Not that he really _needs_ a warning.

Or wants one.

(He doesn't.)

And quite frankly, the sight of her perfectly-polished, perfectly _pink_ toes digging into the carpeting is a sight he isn't prepared to handle. It looks… good. Very good. He feels a fresh wave of heat begin to flare somewhere between his navel and his knees, as he suddenly has to fight to breathe correctly. In through his nose and out through his mouth. It's almost more than he can handle.

For lack of anything else coherent to say (or rather, anything coherent that doesn't involve sexual innuendo or an ill-timed proposition), he starts to apologize. For the car alarm. Again. His ears are still ringing and he suspects that hers are, too, and… _well_… he wants to delay the inevitable. He isn't ready to take her home just yet.

But see, the key word there is "starts." He "_starts_" to apologize, but she barely lets him say two words before she takes him by the hand and leads him back to the sofa. Color him totally surprised.

They sit. She takes the center cushion, and he takes the end. Or rather… _he_ takes the end, and _she_ takes the other half _of the same end_. On the _same_ cushion. So that their limbs are pressed together, and the heat from her body quickly merges with his. And his eyes automatically close, as he realizes that he feels just as warm now, fully awake and sitting beside her, as he did in that dream. When his body was on top of hers, and everything he felt, tasted, saw, and knew began and ended with a single truth.

_**Love**_.

So if she's trying to kill him, he decides that it's one hell of a brilliant way to go.

"Thank you, Cal," she says, totally out of the blue. And then she blushes. "Don't think I've ever told you this before, but I always sleep better when you're right next to me."

And if ever there was a moment – a single, weighted, prophetic moment, when the desires in his brain merged with those in his heart – that was it. That was _the moment_. The one that makes his breath seize and turns his hands clammy, while every inch of his entire body snaps to attention (…yes, his manhood, too…), ready for the green light that he desperately hopes she will give.

Because what she just _said_?

Short of an "I love you," he can't think of anything that will top it.

Eloquence has never been his strong suit, though, and the best he can do – the most appropriate _verbal_ reply he can manage – goes something like this: "Same here, love. I always sleep better when you're right next to me, too."

Just for the record, _yes_: he _**is**_ aware that it sounds completely pitiful. He does intend to follow it up with a kiss, though. A real one. Breath-stealing even, if all goes according to plan. He gets as far as angling his body toward hers, as his hand begins to trace the contours of her cheekbone and jaw… but then the look on her face stops him cold. Because whereas he's finally at the point where he _**feels**_ the moment – with his entire heart and his entire soul – she appears to be _thinking_ it. To be _analyzing_ it.

And as badly as he wants her…

As badly as he wants to be allowed to _love_ her…

He knows it won't work unless they're both on the same page.

So, he takes a deep breath and tries to will his body to calm down. And he watches Gillian watch what he's doing – she _sees_ it, yeah? His disappointment. His yearning. She sees him turn it off and pack it away, and there's a rebuttal on the tip of her tongue – an explanation of some type, though she certainly doesn't owe him one – but he doesn't let her give it. That's a road they don't need to travel.

Instead, he gently maneuvers them both until they're lying down face to face again, with his chest acting as her pillow. And he presses one… two… three kisses against the top of her head, as his hands stroke her back in long, gentle sweeps. "Nothing says we have to leave here until we're both good and ready," he manages. "So if it's alright with you, darling, I'd like to hold you for a little while longer."

He both feels and hears Gillian's smile – it's in her touch _and_ in her voice, as she answers almost immediately. "I'd like that, too," she says.

But all too soon, the silence is shattered once again.

His car's security alarm isn't to blame this time though. _This time_, it's an ambulance. Or rather… it's what he imagines to be an entire _fleet_ of ambulances. They're loud enough to wake the bloody dead – and not only do the sirens slice through the stillness of his office, but the flashing lights do, too. They are bright as hell, and he's temporarily blinded by their intensity.

So, he flinches and curses, as Gillian buries her face in his chest and lets out a single-syllabled swear. The cacophony seems to last for ages, but when it passes – when silence reigns around them once again, and their eyes readjust to the darkness, he's the first to proudly declare that…

"Well, at least my tackle didn't take a beating this time."

It feels good, you know? Levity. Silliness. A bit of light-hearted fun to offset the seriousness they both know is still there, waiting for them on the sidelines. Gillian seems to appreciate it just as much as he does, because she wastes no time in pointing out that…

"And at least my shoe stayed out of your ass."

_Heh_. She normally doesn't say that word. And she definitely doesn't say it in reference to his anatomy.

He rather likes it, to be honest.

When she snuggles back down into him again, he presses another kiss against her head and uses the opportunity to inhale the scent of her hair. Then he brushes his fingertips along the column of her throat, just so he can feel the way her pulse flutters in response to his touch. It's absolutely intoxicating – the tangible, undeniable, _real_ way that her body reacts to his. Why hasn't he noticed it before? He wants to put his lips there, too, and learn how that delicate skin tastes and feels beneath the warmth and wetness of his tongue.

He gets no farther than that, though – just a fleeting fantasy – before the _next_ noise interrupts them. It's a telephone, this time. The one from the reception desk, judging by the distance. And it does not stop. It rings nine… ten… eleven times at top volume before finally, the caller (no doubt a wrong number) either gets tired of waiting, or realizes their mistake and hangs up.

Rather than being annoyed, though, Gillian's shoulders are shaking with laughter as soon as the ringing stops. Her body burrows even tighter against his, as she tips her head back and blinks up at him with a lovely little smile on her face. And he smiles down at her in return – too captivated by the look in her eyes and by the absurdity of the situation to actually speak. There's no need, though. Her words come pretty bloody close to the ones he would've chosen anyway.

"At this rate," she says, "I wouldn't be too surprised to see an entire marching band or a wild pack of roaring _tigers_ come bursting through the door. I mean… _good lord_, Cal, I'm starting to think the universe is trying to tell us something."

As soon as that sentence gets out of her mouth – literally, the very second she finishes saying the word "something" – he hears it off in the distance. The helicopter. There's a rhythmic whir-whir-whir that he just _knows_ will only get louder. Which is par for the course, apparently. It's open season on "Cal and Gillian's Quiet Evening," so why _not_ add a chopper to the mix?

He sees recognition dawn on her face in reaction to the helicopter's sound, and so he clutches her even tighter… drops his leg over hers, so as to practically fold her inside his body… and presses his mouth against the shell of his ear. "I'm inclined to agree with you on that one," he grumbles. And then he waits a few more seconds before following _that_ particular bit of genius conversation (_note the intentional sarcasm_) with a something that is equal parts romance and dry wit. He says…

"But if the universe expects me to concentrate on anything other than how fantastic you feel in my arms, then it'll need to do quite a lot better than that."

_Happiness_.

He sees that emotion bloom on her face first. It's followed by a tiny bit of embarrassment, just a _hint_ of nervousness, and _**there**_ – last but not least – arousal. And his fingertips skim across her pulse point as her eyes lock with his. Her heart is bloody _racing_. It's beating so goddamn fast that he should probably be worried, but then again… so is his. They're an even match, that way.

And as for fear? Thankfully, _no._ It's nowhere to be found.

For all the time they've spent waiting and wondering and testing each other – all the days, weeks, months, _years_ spent dancing around some godforsaken _line_ – he now knows exactly what he wants. Or rather… he now knows that it has been somewhat pointless to wait for the perfect time to actually _claim_ what he wants, because that – the stereotypical "perfect time" – does not exist. It's a myth. A bloody _fable_, perpetuated by romantics and chicken-shits alike, who are all too caught up in someone _else's_ idea of happiness to be courageous enough to claim it for themselves.

Happiness, yeah?

It's a _choice_.

Easy, difficult, or in between – it's a goddamn _choice_.

And he sees that, now.

It's been his choice to wait. To be stupid. To let fear and self-doubt and arrogance nearly push their friendship to the breaking point. And it's been his choice to stay silent. To watch her marriage crumble, and her heart break in the wake of Dave's departure… to tell his _daughter_ that he'd fallen in love with Gillian, but then _not_ tell Gillian herself.

He's gotten so caught up in fantasy – so distracted by the _risks_, and the '_what-ifs'_ and the _gamble_ of it all – that he's been blind to the fact that reality is better. It's not a competition at all. He's been a bloody _coward_ this whole time.

And **yes**, he sees that, too.

"_You and I, we have this level of trust between us that most people don't get to experience. This advantage that the science affords. Meaning that we can see things – real, tangible, _difficult_ things – that other people can't. We aren't blind to any of it, Cal. Not the fear, not the doubt, and certainly not the depth of emotion. _I_ can see it, and so can you. And I just think… I think maybe that _**is**_ what we're waiting for. Because if both of us truly can see everything, and we still haven't done something about it? Then… maybe it just isn't quite the right time for us, yet."_

Christ.

Hindsight, yeah? It sneaks up on him out of nowhere, and smacks him sharply on the back of the head. And when he remembers those words now – when he replays them, and takes enough time to pause and rewind all the nuances of both language and expression – he _sees_, clear as a bell, the double edged sword behind them. He understands that the longer one waits… the easier it becomes to _continue waiting_. Self-doubt and fear? Those are the demons that take root in the space between where her heart ends and where his begins. And unless one of them is brave enough to slice a path right through the chaos, then they'll forever be stuck in limbo.

_We. _

_Us._

_Both._

She uses those words over and over again, by choice. Nothing is singular. There is no blame, and there is no anger. _She_ feels exactly the same way _he_ feels – and the only trouble is, she's too entangled in all the self-doubt and fear to see a pathway to where he stands.

He's there, though.

Metaphorically speaking, he's standing _right there_.

And come hell or high water, he isn't leaving without her.

* * *

**A/N**: Originally, this story was only intended to have four chapters. But while I was writing this one, Cal kind of got away from me (he's tricky that way) and refused to have his musings put on a time table. Chapter five should be the last one, though, and it will pick up right where this one ended.

Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Just wanted to say an enthusiastic and sincere 'Thank You' to everyone who reviewed. I appreciate it so very much! It shouldn't come as a big surprise to know that parts of this chapter are fairly strong T, but I thought I'd mention it anyway. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

We.

Us.

Both.

_She uses those words over and over again, by choice. Nothing is singular. There is no blame, and there is no anger. _She_ feels exactly the same way _he_ feels – and the only trouble is, she's too entangled in all the self-doubt and fear to see a pathway to where he stands._

_He's there, though._

_Metaphorically speaking, he's standing _right there_._

_And come hell or high water, he isn't leaving without her._

* * *

In the heat of the moment – the one he's just had in his own head – his entire body feels as though it's been set on high alert. And as the sexual tension between them slowly continues to build, the simple act of remembering to _breathe_ in and out is a struggle, because everything else is running on instinct. Gillian's eyes are locked with his, and he lets out a deep, desperate groan as he watches her pupils dilate even further – and _yes_, that sound is instinct, too. One of her hands slides up his bicep to curl around his shoulder, and then she squeezes. Hard. He feels her nails dig into the taut skin there, and his heart begins to thud wildly in reaction to the images that burst through his mind, unbidden.

_Christ_, but he wants to kiss her… wants to fill her… wants to _love_ her – in every sense of that word – so thoroughly and completely, that they might temporarily forget where one body stops and the other begins. He's never known desire so strongly in his entire _life_. Whatever fear he might've had in the past is just that – it's _in the past_. It's irrelevant now, and he's too far gone to remember why it was ever a concern in the first place.

The whir-whir-whir of helicopters gradually fades off into the distance, and neither one of them offers to speak again until the room is silent. Mostly because they're too consumed with _touch_ to be bothered by words, and every time he shifts his hips to try and find a more comfortable angle, Gillian whimpers in a way that makes him positively _ache_. It's not deliberate – the sound is so faint and so delicate that he likely wouldn't have heard it at all, save for the fact that he's still sprawled on top of her. But once he _does_ hear it, he's addicted. It's thrilling to know that _he_ is the one causing it. None of his fantasies ever bothered to incorporate such a fantastic sound.

The next time he shifts, though, there is no whimper; she simply breathes his name, instead. _Cal_. That's all she says – just a single syllable that spans one tiny microsecond – but he hears a dozen other things packed inside that space. And while he still believes that the stereotypical "perfect time" is just a myth, he also believes that this is just about as close to finding it as he's ever come before.

Gillian's skin is warm, and her cheeks are flushed, and she is looking up at him – right into his eyes – with an expression that is so goddamned _heated_, it steals his breath. His self-control is waning, and the only thing about which he is still uncertain is the simple logistics of what will come next. Because he wants to tell her first. How he feels. That he loves her. He wants to burn any lingering traces of cowardice, risk, debate, and lines… and speak from his heart. In actual _words_.

Three of them, to be precise.

He's too excited by what he feels in her touch and sees in her eyes to realize that he's practically just dared fate to taunt them one more time (…"_If_ _the universe expects me to concentrate on anything other than how fantastic you feel in my arms, then it'll need to do quite a lot better than that_…"). And he's still too mesmerized by the sound of his name on her lips to understand that properly conveying those three magic words might be easier to do in a _vertical_ setting, rather than a horizontal one. So when his hand ghosts over the curve of her hip and slides up… up… _up_ until he's able to sweep his fingertips over the soft slope of her cheekbone, he isn't expecting to hear anything other than the sound of their mingled breathing – her whimpers and his groans – as they erase their goddamned 'line,' permanently.

But.

He gets only as far as speaking her name in return, before an entire _tsunami_ of noise explodes from somewhere in the distance. Tires squeal… horns blare… and metal crunches against metal. When he realizes, belatedly, that the universe has a twisted sense of humor, the only thing he can think to do comes just as instinctively as everything else: he rolls _off_ of Gillian's body, lunges to his feet, rushes towards the window, and shouts his sexual frustration toward the streets below via one long, drawn-out roar.

Or at least, that was the _plan_.

In his _head_.

But reality?

Nope. It didn't quite work out that way.

_In reality_, he put a bit too much energy into rolling off Gillian. He rather… _overshot_… the distance between his arse and the edge of the sofa, so that momentum carried him straight to the floor. Thud. And because it is rather difficult to rush toward a window while being upended by gravity, he settles for _gesturing_ at it instead. With enthusiasm. While Gillian tries (but fails) not to laugh at his clumsiness. The roar, though, happens mostly as planned; it's a bit breathier than he intends, and it's filled with a bit more swearing than he should probably use, but hey – nobody's perfect.

(Obviously.)

Just as she did during her frantic search to find his car keys, Gillian drops to the floor beside him. She grins and giggles, grasping one of his wrists to pull him upright as she kneels in front of him and smoothes her hands through his messy hair. And by the time he finally _stops_ fidgeting – by the time he forgets about his clumsiness and his slightly sore arse – he blinks up at her in wonder. She is absolutely beautiful, yeah? And of course he's noticed that before (he isn't _blind_) but in this moment… under these particular circumstances… her beauty is somehow _more_. His attraction to her goes beyond skin deep. It goes so far past anything physical, that the strength of it literally makes him shiver.

Gillian notices.

That's right: she _sees_ that shiver run throughout his body, and her grin widens as she watches it go. One, two, three beats pass, and she leans just the slightest bit closer, so that her hair falls slightly in front of her face. It's wavy and messy just like his, and although he wants _so_ badly to know how it feels brushing across his bare chest, he settles for the simple act of tucking it behind her ear instead. When he does… it's her turn to shiver.

"You know, Cal," she starts. And _Christ_, but there's even a smile in her voice to match the one he sees on her face. "For all the times we've slept together, this night tops them all."

_Now_. Under any other circumstances, he would've waited two-point-five seconds, max, before taking full advantage of that particular little gem. He would've waggled his brows… made a big show of looking her up and down, or leering at her cleavage, or saying something very "Lightman-esque" about being on top. But instead, he finds that her quip carries an unexpected jolt of raw honesty, and her words knock him completely off guard.

He turns introspective – lost to that analytical and self-critical place inside his own head that's been known to drive them both mad. And the picture he sees there is humbling, indeed. It reminds him that _yes_, there have been times (plural) that they've curled up with her head on his chest, and with his arm wrapped around her shoulders, and quite happily slept together. In the _literal_ sense of that word. It's become their pattern in recent months – a comfortable way to straddle their infernal line without actually crossing it.

Those things are all well and good in _theory_, but see… here's the kicker: he's in love with her.

And she's in love with him.

So _technically_, the emotional constraints of that 'line' already imploded a long ago.

It's the _physical_ constraints that are still standing – and those remain strong simply because he and Gillian are the veritable king and queen of denial. And procrastination. _And_, occasionally, self-doubt. Tragic, isn't it? She's the love of his life, and yet up until now, he's been too much of a bloody coward to actually _tell_ her how he feels.

When a series of sirens and flashing lights join the symphony of chaos outside, they serve as yet another distraction; yet another '_thing'_ he doesn't quite know how to process without playing to the absurdity of the moment. It's just… it's over the top, really: one car alarm, a small fleet of ambulances, a misdialed telephone, the whir-whir-whir of a random helicopter, and one run-of-the-mill traffic accident. After waiting almost a bloody _decade_ for some sort of cosmic "sign," the universe must've gotten tired of their nonsense and delivered a collection of them instead.

He pulls himself up into a kneeling position alongside Gillian and is halfway to his feet when he finds the presence of mind to actually _speak_. He's inadvertently left her "slept together" comment hanging, and he thinks to himself… '_Say something, you big plonker_,'and his mouth flies into gear before his brain can double-check the words. So despite aiming for something suave and understated, with just a _hint_ of cheekiness, what he actually _says_ is this:

'"_Tops them all_,' you say? Well then… the next time we sleep together, I guess I'll really need to whip out the big guns, just to keep you on your toes."

Colorful, yeah? Innuendo has always been one his many specialties.

But because he isn't actually _aiming_ for innuendo – because he isn't quite prepared to hear himself say _those words_ in _that way,_ to a rather sexily disheveled and blushing Gillian who is still kneeling in front of him – there's a bit of a delayed reaction before his quip registers. No doubt it's her muffled gasp that triggers it; the tiny little whisper of surprise that twines from her mouth to his ear and forces him to stop. To hold still. To realize what he's just said.

Big guns, then. _Heh_. The metaphor certainly is appropriate (…he's not at all insecure about his size, thank-you-very-much…) but his intention was to use it in a much more _universal_ sort of way. One that _doesn't_ tell her why he prefers to wear his jeans so slouchy. And don't even get him started on '_the next time_,' alright? Open mouth, insert foot; he has that process down to a science.

Back to the delayed reaction, though. Self-awareness begins to kick in as soon as he hears Gillian gasp, and it _finishes_ just about the time that they are both standing, face to face. He glances down between their bodies and notices that her shirt has shifted upward a bit. A tiny sliver of pale, perfect skin peeks out from around her waistband, and he wants so badly to touch it… to taste it… to let her know – in a physical sense – just how badly he wants this. Them. Everything. But he's tongue tied, with a decade's worth of bad habits to hold him back. So… (drumroll please) he bloody _apologizes_.

Or at least, he starts to.

He _**starts**_ to.

He gets as far as "Gillian, I'm so…" when that word – '_sorry_'- gets stuck in his throat. His mouth quite literally refuses to say it – a fact which, obviously, does not go unnoticed by her. She looks pleased by what she just heard. Aroused, even. And he isn't sure if she's reacting to the innuendo he used, or the apology that he didn't give.

(Maybe it's both.)

She tilts her head and squints ever-so slightly, as she scoots closer to him and slowly raises one of his hands to her mouth. And he just knows she's going to kiss it – there is no doubt about that, whatsoever. But even still, when he actually feels her warm, soft lips press against his knuckles, the sensation gives him pause. Literally. Save for the gaze that flickers from her mouth to her eyes to her cleavage and back again, he is frozen in place… wondering how he ever convinced himself that a life spent without her was worth living at all… and so bloody exhilarated that he's practically shaking.

He isn't quite sure how it happens or who moves first, but they go from _standing_ face to face with her mouth pressed against his hand, to _sitting_ on the sofa again, locked in a gentle embrace. His palms map the length of her spine, and her fingers draw random patterns over his neck and shoulders, gripping tightly as he steals a moment to place an open-mouthed kiss to the shell of her ear.

"I'm _**so**_…" he tries again. Only this time, that's the entirety of the word. He means it just like that: as '_**so**_.' Not sorry. In his head, the game plan changes; it goes from a three-word declaration, to one that uses a total of six of them instead. And he manages two of the six before those sodding bad habits grip him again. Which _is_ progress, right? He's getting there. It'll just take time.

She pulls back just enough to study his face – to _see_ all the things he cannot quite say, and to show him that she's still with him. Still listening.

_Always_ listening.

Her hand curls around his bicep, and she studies him for just a moment longer before sighing contentedly and leaning into his frame. She's so close that she's practically sitting in his lap, but he doesn't mind at all because that's where he wants her to be. And a beat later – when he feels the sweet warmth of her lips press against his cheek, then his jaw, and then his chin – he decides that they've already wasted too much time.

"I'm so…"

Kiss number four lands on his Adam's apple, and he decides that if she doesn't stop soon, any hope of actually telling her how he feels before their relationship turns physical will be gone. He is not a saint, and he's rarely ever much of a gentleman. Willpower and restraint will only get him so far, and after a ten-year deployment, they've pretty much run their course.

He grips her hip with one hand and fists the other in her hair. And before he can even think about making another attempt at those six words, she twists in his lap to find a better angle… which sends ripples of friction to his pelvis and draws a whimper to his throat. It's the sweetest form of torture he's ever known, and he loves it. This. _Them_. It makes him feel complete.

She takes his face in her hands and smiles at him. Openly. With so much trust and love and happiness in her eyes that it makes his breath catch in his throat. Because _that_ look? It tells him more than words ever could. It tells him that she's tired of waiting, too. That the only truth he ever needs to find already lives within his own heart. And – last but not least – that reality has already outshone all of his fantasies, combined.

Her fingers sift through his hair and she twines one arm around his shoulders, just to anchor herself in place against his chest. "Are you waiting for a sixth sign…" she says quietly, as she drops a single kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Or do you think the universe has done enough prodding for one night?"

And trust him, he laughs. Just a bit. He can't help himself, really. He's _happy_, and _relaxed_, and all of those last nagging tendrils of hesitation – those bad habits that kept rearing their ugly heads, to convince him that he needed to apologize for wanting her so badly – are nothing but a memory. They're in the past, having evaporated somewhere around the time they settled back onto the sofa, and he does not miss them _at all_.

Gillian Foster is very well versed in the art of subtlety, so of course she uses it here. The quip about prodding is rather like a safety net. It's her way of asking him to go first; to be the one who officially steps out onto that proverbial limb, tests its weight, and readies it to support her, too.

So… _he does_.

It bears repeating, yeah? Come hell or high water, he isn't leaving without her.

His right palm cradles her jaw, and the fingertips on his left hand feather soft, gentle strokes against the delicate expanse of her throat. He feels her skin grow warm beneath his hand… watches her jaw slacken, as her tongue snakes out to wet the lips he is just about to kiss… and then it's time.

_Finally_.

"I'm so in love with you, Gillian," he breathes, instantly feeling the sheer relief of the moment as it radiates from the center of his chest and runs throughout every limb. It's absolutely _cathartic_ – like a heavy weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Which is fitting, because in a way… _it has_.

He feels alive and safe and practically invincible, and the utter elation he sees on her face makes his heart begin to pound. Her breathing turns shallow and she grips his body with purpose. Before she has the chance to say anything in reply, though, he's going again; he's _repeating_ himself, just to taste those syllables one more time. "I'm _so_ in love with you."

He isn't quite sure who initiates the kissing – whether _she_ leans forward to press against him, or whether _he_ yanks her onto his lips – but it doesn't matter. He doesn't care. He's practically overwhelmed by the feeling of her mouth working against his. Of the way her tongue strokes and curls and explores, just like his does. Of how much _joy_ comes with the moment. It's practically perfect, yeah? _He's_ elated, too.

Without warning, she tears her mouth away from his with the barest hint of a whimper and meets his gaze head-on. It's rather… _intense_, you know? The moment. The emotion. It all feels positively _tangible_. His body is tingling at every single point where hers makes contact, and sitting still is almost more than he can handle. And surely she knows that, right? Surely she knows that he prefers action to _in_action, and that there are a hundred different _physical_ ways in which he yearns to show her just how true his words really are.

So he whines.

_He whines._

He tries to lift her onto his lap… to pull her hips more tightly against his… to work his lips in a slow, sweet trail along her jaw line, and explore the territory beneath her blouse. And _yes_, he's partially successful. She's a very willing participant. In fact, he doesn't quite understand _why_ she stopped at all, until she does it for a second time and the look in her eyes leaves little doubt as to what she's trying to do. Or what she's trying to say.

_Oh_.

"Gillian…"

He breathes her name on a sign, as she lifts his palm to her lips and kisses it gently. And her eyes are as dark as he's ever seen them. Her face is unguarded and trusting and so goddamn lovely that he almost can't believe she's real. Then she slowly splays his palm over her heart… takes a deep breath… and says…

"I'm in love with you too, Cal. Then… now… _always_."

_Christ_.

Those words tear through him, and all the breath in his body releases in a single, shuddering whoosh. It's almost bloody indescribable, really – like the most thrilling adrenaline rush he's ever known, multiplied by twenty. And if it feels this fantastic _now_, he can scarcely imagine what it will feel like _later_, when they _aren't_ constricted by clothing, circumstance, and the prospect of another interruption.

He waits only a few seconds – at most – before kissing her again. His hands twine in her hair, and he sweeps his tongue along her bottom lip, and he feels her fingers dip beneath his shirt, to dig into the sensitive skin along the waistband of his jeans. And he's just about to drop them to the floor for a third time, when the universe intervenes again.

That car crash hasn't magically vanished just because they've finally come to their senses, after all. It's still there – in all its conspicuous, irritating glory. And while it isn't exactly interfering with anything (…their privacy remains fully intact…), it's not exactly a romantic backdrop, either. And he wants it to be.

He _wants_ to make it romantic, yeah? For her.

Because he _can_ now.

And because he loves her.

Leave it to Gillian to read his intentions before he can verbalize them. She's gets to her feet and pulls him into a hug, managing to press two… three… _four_ kisses along his throat before dropping the fifth back onto his lips. It lingers there, the heat behind it smoldering and warming him from the inside out as he welcomes every single _ounce_ of her attention. And when she finally pulls away, he whines yet again.

She slips into her heels, snags his keys from the desk, and flashes a grin that sends him racing for his own shoes, even as other parts of his body begin to protest that they could save a whole lot of time by making proper use of the floor. Or the sofa. Or the cube.

"Let's go home, Cal," she says lightly, grinning at just how easily she was able to fluster him. And it's the slightly exaggerated sway in her hips that tell him – with certainty – that yes, he _did_ hear a challenge in her voice. That she's teasing him, just a bit. And so…

_Challenge accepted._

"I know we waited ten years to take this step, darling," he starts, lacing her fingers with his as they begin to make their way out of the office and down towards the car. There is absolutely no doubt as to where they are going, or what is about to happen next, but still… he wants to tease her, too.

Just because he's _good_ at it.

"But for whatever it's worth? I'm not sure I can wait another ten _minutes_ to take the next one."

* * *

END


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